A Simple Act Of Brotherhood
by SignsOfSun
Summary: After Dean is killed by Metatron Sam brings his body home to the bunker. It seems right that he should lay his brother out on his own bed in the room he cherished so much. But there is a simple act that Sam must undertake before he can carry his brother down that long hallway to be laid to rest. And to, maybe, just once find some peace. (Related to Do You Believe in Miracles 9x23)


Summary: After Dean is killed by Metatron Sam brings his body home to the bunker. It seems right that he should lay his brother out on his own bed in the room he cherished so much. But there is a simple act that Sam must undertake before he can carry his brother down that long hallway to be laid to rest. And to, maybe, just once find some peace.

Note: This is a one shot stand alone related to Do You Believe in Miracles (9x23).

 **I-%%-%-%%-I**

 **A Simple Act of Brotherhood**

Wringing out the wash cloth grasped inside his hands Sam Winchester watches his brother's life blood seep out of the fabric. He looks on as each red drop falls through the air and then lands silently in the sink. One after the other they collect together, forming a small dark pool.

He has laid his brother out on the table a few feet away. He couldn't bring Dean to his room. Not yet anyway. Something inside Sam tugs forcefully at him demanding that this needs to be done first.

After a moment there is no more red moisture leaving the cloth. Yet the fabric remains thoroughly stained the heartbreaking color. This particular cloth won't do any good any longer. Sam places it in the sink and pulls a fresh cloth out of the drawer nearby. Then reaches out and turns the knob on the faucet.

The water begins to flow freely. But Sam doesn't immediately move to place the cloth under the stream coming out. After a long beat of simply watching the clear liquid running straight down into the drain he reaches his hand out towards it. His fingertips connect with the water, finding it cool to the touch. So he pulls his hand back. And waits a bit longer.

He doesn't care how many cloths he has to retrieve. He will use every last one and scrounge up more, somewhere, if need be.

He doesn't care how long he has to wait on the proper temperature of the water. If that is what it takes to wash away all that red from his brother's face.

Why it matters so much he doesn't know. But, regardless, it does. And it matters to the point of being physically painful. It radiates through every muscle, every bone, every nerve ending, every synapse – every fiber. It leaves a trail of fractures and frays in its wake. It pulses in time with his heartbeat.

The mere thought of looking upon Dean's face covered in scrapes and cuts and all those trails of dried blood makes his heart ache and extracts the breath from his lungs.

He needs to cleanse his brother's features of the cruelty that Metatron delivered upon him. He needs to wipe away as much of the stain as he possibly can of everything his brother has had brutally etched into him. He needs to give his brother this simple act of kindness – this gift of gentleness and dignity. This last simple act born out of their brotherhood.

Sam isn't sure why he is just standing there unmoving. Why he is bothering to wait for the temperature of the water to adjust before soaking the cloth. Maybe he figures some level of heat will do a better job at the task ahead – the one of scrubbing away all those layers of blood. But that is only some desperate and lame line of logic taking over he decides. No. He will wait for the water to be a pleasant comforting warmth before dousing the cloth because that will make it acceptable to use on his brother's skin.

Sam knows there is no intellectual logic in that. Because his brother won't feel it. His brother is dead. So what does it matter how cold or warm the water is? Except to Sam it does for some reason. It matters deeply. It comes out of a place embedded in the core of his being. It comes from the piece of him that is so bound to Dean that the pain of his brother's battered soul on occasion transcends and is felt in some faint degree by Sam. This means that Sam has seen a glimpse of the dark struggle Dean's been through. So It matters that care is taken – that no further assault is inflicted upon his brother. No matter how slight or ultimately well meaning in its beginning. Dean's been through enough already. He's taken his fair share. If not more.

Sam tests the water again, letting his fingertips linger longer in its stream this time. It's much more tolerable now and filled with a caressing warmth. So he places the newly retrieved cloth under the water and lets it soak until there isn't a dry thread left. Then with his free hand he twists the knob on the faucet again, turning the water off.

He squeezes the cloth faintly inside his fist, forcing the excess moisture out.

The cloth is ready to be used but Sam doesn't turn away from the sink just yet. Now that the water is shut off the room falls into silence once again. It is so quiet that something as simple as the taking in and releasing of breath is easily audible. And it stabs Sam straight through the heart that the only breathing to be heard is his own. Because despite the fact his brother is only a few feet behind him Dean no longer takes in breath – he is still and silent and gone.

For a long beat Sam simply stands there at the sink staring down at the cloth in his hand. The bright whiteness of the fabric stands out to him almost like a taunt. The first cloth started out the same way but its purity didn't last long. It was quickly darkened in hue with every stroke of the cloth over the surface of his brother's blood covered neck.

He knows that this second one will likely be saturated even more quickly. Because the one he holds in his hand now he will use to wipe away the blood pooled around his brother's mouth and chin.

Sam's mind flashes back to Dean looking up at him, blood dripping from his lips. The words he spoke _"I'm proud of us."_ coming out thick through the red liquid pooled on his tongue and the swelling of his split lips.

It is at that moment that a spike of rage pierces the thick blanket of Sam's grief. Anger at how this all went down. And who played a role in it. Those who had a hand in this will have to answer for their part. For a split second there is the urge to bolt straight out the door and strike out on that hunt. But he swiftly reigns it in and seals it away until after the task at hand is done. His brother comes first.

He hangs his head for a moment, bracing himself for what is to come. Then, finally, he turns around and is once again assaulted with the image of his older brother laid out, motionless, along the length of the tabletop.

Sam swallows down hard on the pressure which pushes up from his heart and into his throat. It isn't only by looking at him that Sam knows that the Dean he knew is gone. Sam can tell because of how utterly alone he is in the room in which he stands and by how empty the place within himself that normally holds a piece of his brother feels now. His brother's absence rips jaggedly and tortuously through him the same as the dullest of blades would.

Even when they fought – no - when they _battled_ or when they couldn't communicate for one reason or another - whether in the same room or miles apart - Dean's presence was always there. And now it's not.

Sam's mind flashes back across to all those years ago to when Dean was lying in a hospital bed dying after Azazel tore him apart and the Impala was crushed into oblivion by that semi. He remembers how easily, how vividly, his brother's presence had come to him then even as it was fading away. Sam could tell he was still there, still tethered by some fraying thread.

And over the years since then that connection to Dean's presence has only strengthened, become more easily recognizable and solid.

But now standing in this room a mere three feet from his brother Sam only feels the void. His brother is no longer present here. There is a wisp of something else but it is faint and unrecognizable. And certainly not his brother.

The feeling that the cloth in his hand is beginning to lose its heat propels Sam out of his frozen statue like state into motion. He crosses the handful of feet to the table and lowers his gaze to Dean's body.

Sam's breath hitches upon itself causing an awkward sound akin to a sob to leave his throat.

He can barely make out the definitions of his brother's face. There are dried streams of blood smeared down over his temples, jawline and mouth. A collection of long open cuts have taken up residence there. They are raw looking and mar his brother's forehead and cheek. The left side of his face, his eyelid and jaw in particular, are distorted by the swelling that had already taken hold before he had inhaled his last breath. And Sam's mind is filled with only one overwhelming thought. _Dean did not deserve this._

Sure over the years Dean has earned a lot of ire – even from Sam himself. But for some reason this sight impacts Sam in an acute way. Perhaps it is because his brother had already been suffering – was already deeply damaged – even before that son of a bitch landed a hand on him. Dean had already been on the brink. Already teetering on the edge of becoming something he didn't want to be - pushed against his will to head down an ebony pathway. He had still been fighting tooth and nail with every last scrap of strength he had in him despite its tangible futility. But, in the end, that very human quality – no - that flawed human beauty of not giving in despite the clarity of its outcome – had earned him no mercy.

Sam's thoughts spiral back through the span of time. His mind tallying up every event he can recall. But, ultimately, he does not find what he is searching for. The process only reveals a single harsh truth. It seems that Dean, over the course of his life, only ever really received the punishment he had earned and rarely, if ever, the reward.

And Sam knows now that this is one of the reasons he admired Dean so much. Because despite never really receiving much in the way of anything good gifted upon him his brother still found strength and reason enough to carry on. Even bone weary and tugged by the allure of giving up he never actually did.

As this thought hums around his heart and mind Sam reaches out towards the body of his brother. But he stalls the motion when the cloth gripped in his hand arrives a mere fraction of an inch from connecting with the skin of Dean's face. For a moment he simply lets it hover.

"I'm going to take care of you, brother," he whispers out.

It is only after the words melt away into the quiet of the room around him that Sam's hand is in motion once more. The first stroke of the fabric over the skin around Dean's mouth is feather light. The touch barely impacts the stain of redness there. It has been left to settle too long for it to be so easily wiped away.

So Sam is forced to add a little more pressure as he pulls the fabric across Dean's chin in a second pass over the same spot. But he does his best to be mindful. This time the cloth soaks up considerably more and Sam can see a hint of clean skin coming through just below Dean's bottom lip.

The sight tugs at him to continue. So Sam does just that. He steadily works against his brother's blood caked stubble and the stubbornness of the stain upon it to wipe away the blood from the rest of Dean's chin.

The further the blood is washed away and the more fresh clean skin becomes visible the more the layers of Sam's grief are lifted with it. Less and less it is the damage – the streams of dried blood, the open cuts and deep bruises – that he notices and more and more it is Dean – his brother – his best friend - that he sees before him.

The dark blanket of sadness covering Sam's mind draws back a bit. It relents just enough that a sliver of hazy light slips through. It brings kinder memories along with it. A steady stream of snapshots in time. A mental photo album he all too often forgets that he carries along with him wherever he goes.

He remembers the Christmas Dean gave him a skin mag and shaving cream and his heart silently laughs. It leads into Sam's present back to him – motor oil and beef jerk. What was it Dean had said "fuel for me and fuel for my baby". The real gift to Sam that Christmas had been seeing his brother allow himself a genuine smile despite what they both knew was coming.

The memory shifts and the echo of his brother's voice snarks at him in his head. _"House rules Sammy. Driver picks the music. Shot gun shuts his cake hole."_. The words morph into a visual memory of all those miles flying down the road in the Impala. Dean in the driver's seat, hands drumming on the steering wheel, and voice singing along as the sound of his beloved music pulses through the car. With Dean inevitably smiling all the while through. It had been contagious and soon, in turn, Sam always found himself smiling and joining in on the chorus.

As Sam carefully works the damp cloth over the corner of Dean's mouth, the skin there cracked and sore looking, and then up towards his upper lip more images come to him.

Memories of their prank wars arrive in flashes across the movie screen in his mind – one prank after the other in rapid succession. Itching powder in Sam's boxers. A beer bottle stuck to Dean's hand. Nair in Sam's shampoo. And radio music keyed up to blaring as Dean starts up the Impala. And on and on. Until, finally, the memories of their pranks fade away and are replaced by the remembrance of things they had done together.

Times from their younger days - of sneaking into movies and concerts they wanted to see but didn't have the money to buy an honest ticket for. Then having to make a break for it by racing out the emergency exit when it was discovered they hadn't paid. They'd run down along the alleyway and break into victorious laughter and congratulatory pats on the back once they had eluded capture. And to this day there were movies they still had never seen the ending to. But they didn't care because the ending that mattered was hanging out together.

These are followed by mental snapshots of brotherly bets and rapid fire banter and nights spent at some bar playing wingman for one another.

The tide of memories ebbs somewhat. And slower paced ones take over Sam's thoughts. In his mind's eye he sees hours spent sitting beside his brother on the hood of the Impala. Both of them gazing up into the brilliant night sky overhead and off into the stars beyond. Spoken words sparse between them. There was no need for any. They were silent conversations.

And sometimes if they were lucky and they happen to be in the right place at the right time they became shared witness to the most awesome of fireworks displays, the majesty of the aurora borealis or the rarest of meteor showers.

He thinks of roadside chats and stops at silly tourist attractions.

Sam can almost feel the motion of the car as he recalls speeding over the highway as they raced to make the opening period of a hockey game or the first square off of a wrestling match when they granted themselves the day off.

Even mental snapshots of card games and watching cartoons hold up in some dive of a motel room for days on end. Somehow in these moments they were their younger selves once again. Back to a time when they could escape, at least for a little while, by simply opening up a comic book or sitting together making crude commentary while the stupidest of movies played out on the tv screen before them.

These memories are short in number. So they are fleeting as they pass through his mind. But in their wake they leave a kind of contentment. They are precious because of their simplicity. When you don't have much the one thing you do have is priceless.

And still more float to the surface of his memory.

There's the cooler of beer accompanied by a lesson from his big brother on how to fix the Impala.

There are soapy water wars while they washed away the long miles of road off of Baby, the only home they had for so very long.

Even the simplest of things float back to Sam. Like pretending he had forgotten his brother's request, no _demand,_ for pie when he went on snack runs. The disgruntled _I'm going to shoot you_ expression would instantly arrive on Dean's face. Then after a moment Sam would peek in the bag, feign a surprised look and declare _oh wait, I remember now, I did get it after all_. The homicidal look on his brother's face would instantly depart. And a proud grin would take its place and his reply was always _"I knew you wouldn't let me down, Sammy."._

The memories swirl around Sam's mind. They are like all those bright stars they had looked up at in the night sky. Each one shining through as a brilliant point of illumination. Every single one bound to his heart and unique.

Sam finds a smile has formed on his lips and that his heart aches a little less. The memories fade into the background and the room around Sam seeps back in.

His gaze refocuses and he's fully in the present again. He feels the soft wet fabric grasped in his hand and sees his brother's still face in front of him. The cloth is now saturated red and Dean's lips are finally entirely visible again. And in some strange way Sam feels like he has actually done something for his brother. As if with each layer of blood he has wiped away it has given something meaningful back to Dean – something that was stolen from him.

Once again Sam feels the need to replace the soiled cloth with a fresh one. So he lifts the fabric away from his brother's cheek. Then for a moment he just let's himself look at Dean's face – truly studies its detail for a long moment.

It represents so much to Sam. In the sturdiness of his brother's jawline he sees determination and strength. In his closed eyelids he sees his brother's defenses – how he used them as a shield to keep unwanted emotions from displaying the truth in his green gaze. And still others times to settle himself and quell his boiling frustration. Sam sees the lines of worry that at times seemed so deeply etched into Dean's forehead. He sees that smug defiant grin that played over his lips so many times illustrated in the contours of his mouth. And the thought of never seeing that grin again awakens an emptiness in Sam. It's the catalyst that triggers the avalanche.

A massive rumbling wall of emotions barrels into him. Its impact sends him mentally careening through the ever twisting turning road of their story.

They have been brothers in arms. And adversaries at the darkest of turns.

More often than not they are two sides of the same coin. But when they truly don't see eye to eye they are distinct entities.

They have been best friends for most of the journey. Yet strangers when they chose to travel down different roads.

They are right in step with one another. Yet now and again, for a fleeting moment, they fall out of rhythm. And struggle before finding it again.

There has been separation and reunion. Loyalty and betrayal. Anger and kindness. Mercy and brutality. Frustration and patience. Despair and hopefulness. Clarity and Insanity. Honesty and deception.

They are a united front and a fractured friendship all in the same moment.

There have been embraces of comfort and knock down drag out physical fights.

They've encouraged each other but still yet at times delivered hard truths to one another.

They've carried each other's burden to help lighten the load. And have turned their backs on one another over a great divide.

But through it all there was always the vein of their brotherhood underneath it all. And their destination at each point in the journey was ultimately marked by either a reunion or a goodbye.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of its weight. His grip tightens around the cloth in his hand, bracing himself in hopes of riding it out. After what feels a lifetime it finishes rolling over him.

In its wake he is stripped raw. His insulation, his defenses, are vanished. It spikes the rate of his heart and makes his head light.

The magnitude of it all. Everything they went through together and all that they were to one another. All that he was to Dean. And all that Dean was to him. All at once it had plowed into him.

He hears the gasp for air that his body lets out but doesn't recall feeling the desperate need to take it. A long inhale and exhale of breath later the pressure of the emotional avalanche has released him.

Suddenly Sam feels the coldness of the cloth in his hand. It draws him to gaze down at it. The fabric is thoroughly drenched red and somehow this grounds him.

With renewed purpose he moves back to the sink and turns the faucet on. He deposits the used cloth into the basin beside its companion from earlier. He turns to the drawer nearby and pulls out two fresh towels. Turning back to the sink he tests the water's temperature with his fingertips. Finding warmth he soaks both cloths. The task complete he shuts off the faucet and returns to Dean.

Sam sets one of the cloths down on the tabletop and keeps hold of the other. He slowly reaches down and gently grasps hold of his brother's right hand and gazes down at it. The knuckles are scraped up. There are cracks in the skin in places. And dried blood cakes his fingers and the back of his hand. So he sets to work cleaning the redness away using the moist fabric of the cloth. Soon he has moved on to Dean's other hand, taking up the same task there. When Sam is finished he sets down the cloth, takes a breath and picks up the fresh one off the table.

He shifts his gaze up to his brother's face. Here all that is left to wipe away are the two trails of dried blood, one on either side of his head, beginning at his temples and pooled around his ears. Sam runs the soft fabric over the skin of Dean's temple. He dabs at the spattering of red that is in amongst the spiky hair there. And the red comes away fairly easily onto the cloth this time.

He has to work more diligently down along the side of his brother's head and around his ears but with steady effort the right side is cleaned. He moves on to the left temple and down along to his left ear and soon has achieved the same result there.

The cloth in his hand is soaked through red but Sam has done what he set out to do. He picks up the towel he used on Dean's hands and moves back to the sink. There he places the two cloths with the others he discarded.

Sam doesn't turn back around immediately. Instead he braces the palms of his hands down on the edge of the sink and hangs his head. For a long moment he lets the solidness of the counter support his exhausted body. Then takes several deep breaths in and out in hopes of settling himself for what lies ahead.

Finally, Sam lifts his head and straightens up. Then returns to the table once again.

He looks down upon his brother's cleaned face and lays a hand on his shoulder. For a long moment he simply stays this way, silently wishing he knew if he had brought Dean even a sliver of peace.

He can feel the storm of emotion beginning to kick back up in him again. So he knows it's time to move along before it gets the better of him.

Reluctantly, Sam lifts his hand away from Dean's shoulder. But the physical disconnection is short lived and in the next breath Sam has slipped his hands underneath Dean's body and lifted him up to carry.

He has held his dead brother before and those times the outcome had, ultimately, returned him. But this time is different somehow. He doesn't know why. Maybe some shift in air of the room tells him. Maybe it's the hollowness he feels. Or how some connection that once existed is now severed. All he knows for sure is that it's different – it's not like before.

They have always found each other. No matter how far apart, physically or in their hearts. But this time he knows that his brother is lost. And it shatters his heart.

Half of Sam is gone now. And he's not sure that the half that remains will survive on its own. He has to find a way to bring that lost piece of himself back. And he knows that the only way that can be accomplished is the return of his brother to him. He has to find a way to make that happen. And only then will Sam be made whole again.

Until then this simple act of brotherhood will be the only gift he has to give.

That and, perhaps, carrying his brother in his arms down the long hallway to the room he cherished so much. To lay him down on his bed and let him be at rest.

 _The End_


End file.
